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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29230200">I tried to tell you.</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/mxmushroom/pseuds/mxmushroom'>mxmushroom</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Anal Sex, Angst, Comfort Sex, Dry Humping, M/M, Martin Hates Elias, Martin is a top, Martin is also PACKING, Martin is soft, Martin rights, Mentioned Jurgen Leitner, Minor Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Leitner, Tim Also Hates Elias, Tim Hates Jon!, Tim Stoker Is A Bottom, Tim is mean to Martin but he apologizes, no beta we die like men, season 2 finale</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 01:02:32</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,841</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29230200</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/mxmushroom/pseuds/mxmushroom</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“Are you going to invite me into the bedroom, or shall we make do out here?” <br/>	Tim laughed. Martin got the sense he wasn’t particularly used to being bossed around, but the cynicism and anger that had been etched into his features for so many months was vanishing, and that was worth it, all of it. “Yeah, all right,” Tim conceded. “Come along, then.”</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Martin Blackwood/Tim Stoker</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>45</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>I tried to tell you.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>well, looks like i'm, how do you say, back on my bullshit. <br/>i just think martin is a top with a big dick. i will not be taking questions at this time. <br/>this is right after the S2 finale. the boys are SAD and they're gonna HAVE SEX about it.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>When they stumbled out of Jon’s office, they didn't even really need to speak about what to do next. That’s what would shock Martin later, as he followed Tim wordlessly to the elevator, which snaked its way slowly, far too slowly, up the Institute’s interminable tower. What could possibly be </span>
  <em>
    <span>on </span>
  </em>
  <span>all these floors, he found himself wondering, as the numbers climbed and climbed and climbed. He thought they skipped whole dozens--jumped from 10 to 23 without so much as a flickering light or a stutter. Tim, leaned against the chrome wall of the lift in exhaustion, did not appear to notice. Martin almost reached for the other man’s hand before stopping himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey,” he said instead, softly so as to grant Tim plausible deniability if he didn’t, or couldn’t, respond. “I’m right here.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tim said nothing, but nodded, his angular jaw set firm, his chin jutting out in a slight, defiant grimace. Martin thought he hadn’t shaved in a few days. The bags under his eyes seemed almost permanent. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a gentle </span>
  <em>
    <span>ding </span>
  </em>
  <span>as they reached the top floor. And of course, Martin thought, rolling his eyes inwardly, of course Elias’ office would be on the top floor. The pretentious arse wouldn’t have it any other way. Considering how shockingly young the man was--certainly under forty--Martin was certain he came from money. The thought of Elias on childhood trips to the Continent, crashing daddy’s Mercedes, in tailored suits from the age of twelve, made Martin’s stomach churn. He clenched a fist in the deep pocket of his thrift-shop coat and cleared his throat. Tim looked over at him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s not gonna be in here.” He sounded defeated, disarmed. His throaty voice, usually so cocky and brash, cracked, and he swallowed, hard. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well,” Martin replied, trying to inject at least some brightness into his tone, “no harm in taking a look about, then.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The door wasn’t locked. Martin tried not to think too hard about the implications of that as he swung it open, the heavy oak hitting the wall opposite hard and opening the way into Elias’ dim sanctuary. Martin did take Tim’s hand now, and he was sweaty and let his hand hang loosely between his fingers as he led the way, fumbling with his other hand for a light switch. It was a moment before he found one, and then the office was awash in a golden glow from a single fixture, crystalline and heavy, that hung in the centre of the ceiling. It was only in that moment that Martin realized he’s never been in this room before. Even his interview (God, that horrid interview) took place in some conference room or other. Elias journeyed down through the Institute’s labyrinthine hallways, seemed to appear always at the least opportune moments in the tiny window in Martin’s office door or between shelves in the archives with a quiet, “pardon me,” but never, never had he invited Martin up into this quiet, private sanctum. From the look on Tim’s face, which was cast with shock at the sight before them, that seemed to be Elias’ general practice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The office was opulent, at least. Each wall lined with bookshelves laden and heavy with leather bound tomes. Martin noticed passively that none of the spines had obvious titles; instead, binding in various shades of black and brown loomed from the walls, making the large room feel claustrophobic. Martin’s scuffed Oxfords felt out of place on the gleaming wooden floors, shining under the glint of the light. There were no windows, or, if there had been, once, bookshelves covered them now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s the goddamn point of being in the penthouse then,” Tim muttered, and Martin forced a laugh. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Elias’ desk sat in the centre of the room, like a sacrificial altar, directly under the yellow circle cast by the light. Like so much else here, it was heavy, wooden; atop it sat files, meticulously kept but unlabelled, a single, half-burnt candle, an array of pens that must have cost dozens of pounds or more. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let’s hurry,” Martin whispered. “Come on.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tim scoffed. “I don’t know what you think is going to happen,” he sneered. Martin tried not to sting at the icy tone in Tim’s voice. He doesn’t mean it, he told himself. He’s coping. “What are the statistical odds of us having not one, but </span>
  <em>
    <span>two </span>
  </em>
  <span>murderous bosses?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The memory of the old man’s body, slumped and bloodied, flashed before Martin’s eyes. He shook his head firmly to banish it, then stepped forward. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You didn’t need to come,” he said. His voice quavered, against his will. Mentally, he kicked himself as he began to try the myriad drawers of Elias’ desk. Locked, every one. He swore. “You could go home, you could </span>
  <em>
    <span>quit</span>
  </em>
  <span>, you could have let Jon fire you when he tried--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tim cut him off. “Shut up.” Martin looked up from where he wrestled with the desk, hurt. He could feel how hot his face was; he’d always been rubbish at hiding his emotions, and the dual humiliation of Tim’s harsh words and how plainly he knew he was betraying his response to them swelled to his fair cheeks in a rush of red. Tim relented. His eyes softened in a flash of remorse. “Sorry,” he said curtly. “But you give Jon too much credit. If you weren’t so busy </span>
  <em>
    <span>pining </span>
  </em>
  <span>over the man, maybe you might’ve noticed that he </span>
  <em>
    <span>wasn’t fucking okay!</span>
  </em>
  <span>” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was then that Martin abandoned Elias’ drawers to stare Tim in the face. It wasn’t noticeable, but really, they were of a height, large men, each six feet at least, and Martin straightened so they came eye to eye across the wide oak surface of the desk. “Well, I’m sorry,” he began, “if we haven’t all responded to our life-changing trauma in a way that suits the great Timothy Stoker, master of healthy communication, Jesus </span>
  <em>
    <span>Christ</span>
  </em>
  <span>, you’re being thick, you selfish…” Martin trailed off, a string of insults for Tim, none of which he really meant, spinning through his mind. “Help me go through these,” he said quietly instead, his voice hard, as he slid one of Elias’ files across the desk to Tim. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He was </span>
  <em>
    <span>stalking you</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Tim reminded him in a voice both sing-song and terrifying. But he took the file nonetheless, flipping through it with a show of nonchalance that Martin could see through without even trying, catching the way Tim’s dark eyes lingered on each page before he tossed the papers down, untidied on the desk. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin grabbed at them. “Well, put them away, at least,” he protested, and Tim let out a short, humorless laugh. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You think he doesn’t know we’re here?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin could only stare, gap-mouthed, as fear sunk his stomach into his feet and a cold sweat broke out on his forehead and the dimpled small of his back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Martin,” Tim said more softly. “Oh. Martin. Come here.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Later, Martin wouldn’t be sure how he got around or over or otherwise past Elias’ behemoth desk and into Tim’s lean, warm arms. But he nuzzled his face into the crook of his friend’s neck and could feel as he wet it with hot, soundless tears, could feel Tim’s firm grip holding him still as he shook. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let’s get you home,” Tim whispered. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin pulled away for a brief, horrible, wonderful moment, and his blue eyes met Tim’s brown ones, their faces close enough that the heat between them fogged Martin’s glasses. “They were statements,” he whispered, almost soundlessly, but he knew Tim could read his lips. “Jon’s...statements.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim’s flat was small and not particularly well-decorated. Martin knew surely enough they weren’t paid exactly fairly at the archive, and to live alone in London was a feat in itself, but he still found himself raising his eyebrows at the sofa that seemed to have been fished off a street corner, missing one leg so that it sat unevenly on the dingy carpet. The place stunk of pot and musky candles and… was that incense? He didn’t have time to ask as Tim guided him gently onto the couch and pressed a glass of something into his hand. How had they gotten here? Martin let out a slow, even, and tensely controlled breath as he tried to remember. The cab, yes. Had Tim paid for the cab? There was cash in Martin’s wallet, he’d have to remember to pay Tim back. It had been raining. Hadn’t it? He felt aimlessly for his hair; yes, it was wet, and a mess, from the feel of it. He started as a weight pressed into the sofa beside him, and he was dimly aware of an arm snaking its way around his shoulders. Without thinking, he leaned in to the body beside him: Tim. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re not… angry,” he murmured, and Tim shook his head as his fingers wandered into the soft cloud of Martin’s untamed red hair. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not with you.” Tim’s voice was soft. How could he do that--become the arrogant seductor, the angry, hardened and beleaguered employee, and now… this, the gentle, warm man that ran his large hand through Martin’s hair to soothe his ragged breathing? Tim laughed, for real this time, it seemed, and the beauty of the sound jolted through Martin from his neck to his ankles and broke his train of thought as Tim whispered, “never with you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t need to say anything. Martin sipped from the cup Tim had handed him, hot but not scalding. Tea. God, the man knew him. Black tea, and was that honey and lemon, and maybe just a dash of rum? Whatever it was, it calmed him, the hot trail of it making its way into his gut. He set the mug down on the coffee table and shifted so that he looked into Tim’s eyes. They were weary. The writer in Martin realized there was no other word for it, the weight of the sadness and resignation behind the chocolate and honeyed tones of Tim’s eyes. Martin caught himself looking into them more deeply than he ever had, more deeply than he really ought to, and God, he thought, they were beautiful. The lashes were long, dark, soft; almost without thinking, Martin leaned forward, then stopped himself, shy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s okay.” Tim’s voice was quiet, but firm. Warm. “I’m… sorry. I shouldn’t have taken… I know it’s not your fault. Okay, I know. None of this… you’re caught up in it just as much as me. I know that. I just thought, I mean, I really hated him, you know? Jon.” The words spilled out of Tim all at once, and instinctively Martin reached a hand up to cup his friend’s cheek in soft, unspoken comfort. “I thought you wouldn’t understand. I thought you… but.” Tim’s voice hitched. “I was wrong.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tim,” Martin said, helplessly. “Tim. It’s horrible. I’m scared.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Me too,” Tim whispered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So’s he.” Martin said it before he could stop himself, then regretted it immediately, but Tim didn’t bristle, not now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I suppose he is,” he said instead. And then there was a warm, dry pressure on Martin’s lips and he leaned into it, parting them invitingly, and he couldn’t remember the last time they’d eaten so the taste that met his tongue as it tentatively explored the mouth before it was purely, entirely </span>
  <em>
    <span>Tim. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He wasn’t sure who’d finally bridged the static space between them. He wasn’t sure he cared. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It surprised most of Martin’s partners how assertive he was in bed, and as Martin fumbled forward to unbutton Tim’s shirt--already filthy with the grime of the tunnels and the sweat of God knows how many days in that </span>
  <em>
    <span>place</span>
  </em>
  <span>-- his coworker was no exception. A shadow of the Tim Martin had first met flickered across that gorgeous olive face with its almost Grecian features as Tim smirked and whispered “oh, </span>
  <em>
    <span>all right</span>
  </em>
  <span>, then,” pulling away just long enough to speak before Martin pulled Tim’s lips back to his own and was kissing him again, harder now, more desperately, unsure whose tongue was whose or if he was sucking at Tim’s bottom lip or the other way around. He slid Tim’s shirt off his shoulders and ran his hands over the hard, hot muscle, the other man’s bare chest, pausing to tweak at a nipple as he moved relentlessly from Tim’s mouth to his neck, which elicited such a delicious noise that Martin realized how tight his trousers had become, suddenly, and paused. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you going to invite me into the bedroom, or shall we make do out here?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tim laughed. Martin got the sense he wasn’t particularly used to being bossed around, but the cynicism and anger that had been etched into his features for so many months was vanishing, and that was worth it, all of it. “Yeah, all right,” Tim conceded. “Come along, then.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It wasn’t a large flat. There was, actually, barely a hallway, and as Tim led him through the bedroom door Martin found himself unable to stop touching him, reaching to grab at that perfect ass, admiring the scarred and lean lines of Tim’s back. “God, you’re gorgeous, you know.” It was almost a growl, as Martin guided Tim onto the haphazardly-made bed and positioned himself over him, so that his cock, fully hard, now, and leaking, pressed against the space between his thigh and the other man’s rapidly growing erection. Tim let out another pretty moan as Martin moved his hips, just slightly, to press into him, and traced his fingers lightly over his chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t be a tease,” Tim pleaded.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t tell me what to do,” Martin countered. That shut him up. Tim’s hands felt their way to Martin’s backside as he resumed kissing his way down Tim’s neck, his chest, sucked at his nipples, left a trail of wetness over the taut stomach with his tongue. Tim was impatient; even as Martin pulled away to undress him further, Tim’s fingers grappled with his belt and the button of his trousers until he was there, almost fully revealed in his briefs. Martin couldn’t contain his delight at the wet spot slowly spreading across their front as he palmed at the bulge through the thin cotton, and Tim whined, bucking his hips upward into the friction.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, no,” Martin chided. “Be patient.” He moved away, and Tim sat up in protest:</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin said nothing as he stood and began to undress himself: off came the cardigan he always wore to the office on cold days, to avoid the chill of the humidity-controlled basement archives. He took particular time undoing the button of his trousers, sliding off the dark grey boxers he wore so that his cock sprung out and his desperation for Tim’s body was on full display. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jesus, Martin,” Tim said, eyes taking him in hungrily. “Just get over here and fuck me already.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This was what Martin had worried about. “Right,” he said, “it’s just that, um, I haven’t got anything with me? We’ve just come from work, remember.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tim rolled his eyes. “Oh, is that what you’re worried about?” He rolled over, reaching for the bedside table Martin was only just now noticing, and slid the top drawer open to produce a bottle of lube and a condom. “Come here.” Tim’s voice was enticing; the barely-disguised </span>
  <em>
    <span>want </span>
  </em>
  <span>in it pulled Martin forward to finally strip Tim completely and toss his briefs off the bed into the crumpled pile of clothing on the floor. And fuck, Tim’s cock, hard and almost visibly throbbing, was glorious. Martin couldn’t help but reach for it, wrap his large, soft hand around its shaft, run the pad of his thumb over the exposed, leaking head. Tim was uncut, which thrilled Martin; he pulled back the foreskin as he stroked lightly, delighting in the pretty curve and the neatly trimmed, curly dark hair at its base. He bent to taste, promising himself he wouldn’t make Tim come yet--he wasn’t ready for this to be over. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sound Tim made when Martin’s mouth latched over the tip of his cock sent a jolt through Martin’s body that almost made him moan in response, fully untouched. Tim’s hands in his hair, pushing his head further down; Tim’s hips, searching upward towards the back of Martin’s throat; the wetness of Martin’s mouth and Tim’s pre-cum dripping from Martin’s lips and down his chin as Tim fucked up into him--it was almost too good to stop. But he did stop, reaching for the lube on the bed beside him, squeezing it out onto his index finger where it was cold and shone in the dim light cast by the digital clock beside them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin didn’t even need to ask; Tim shifted, his legs pressed up against Martin’s shoulders so his ass was exposed, and Martin noted with satisfaction that it was just as pretty as the rest of him, if not more so, tight and just ever so slightly darker than the rest of his skin. Slowly, watching Tim’s face for pain or discomfort, he slid his finger in to the knuckle and let it rest there as Tim let out a satisfied sigh. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh. That’s… nice.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s good?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s really good.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The happy smile on Tim’s face encouraged Martin as he slid his finger in further, searching for the spots that would make Tim lose his composure as he warmed him up, readied him. He could tell Tim was happy to get fucked as he eased a second finger into him; he seemed to open to Martin readily, as though he’d been waiting for this, and he let out that very specific and oh-so-exciting sigh of a man who is glad to finally be filled. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reluctant to leave Tim empty, spurred on by the pretty look of his eyes squeezed shut and the occasional breaths that were sharper, more desperate as they escaped from his lips, Martin tore the condom open with his teeth and eased it onto his cock single-handedly. It was better like this, he thought as Tim opened his eyes at the sound of the foil packet ripping. Better to see their faces. How pretty Tim would look completely undone for him, fucked useless and happy, begging for Martin to let him come. The thought was enough to press Martin to whisper, “Are you ready?” and Tim nodded, eager, waiting. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you sure?” Martin followed up. He’d had only too many experiences of too-eager bottoms, and, he recalled with embarrassment, his size had been underestimated before. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Martin, please,” Tim gasped. God, his voice. “Just fuck me. I need you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This time, he didn’t need to be asked twice. He pulled his hand from Tim gently, lubing up the condom generously, feeling his anticipation grow as he stroked himself, preparing. He leaned forward, propping himself up on both arms, the tip of his cock pressed firmly against Tim’s entrance, and watched Tim’s face as he pushed, slowly, inside. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The moan that escaped Tim’s mouth went straight to Martin’s cock, and he sat, still for a moment, letting Tim cockwarm him, feeling the tight heat of the other man against him, trying desperately to keep his composure as he watched sweat bead on Tim’s forehead and his face contort in pleasure. “Fuck,” Tim whispered, “you feel good.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah?” Martin teased. “Keep talking, pretty boy.” He eased his hips forward in a slow roll, feeling the entirety of Tim against him, and God, how had they not done this before? Tim’s body felt made for him, he fit inside Tim perfectly, and with each slow, exactly grind of Martin’s hips Tim seemed to beckon him deeper, relaxing, turning to putty in Martin’s hands. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tim obliged. Funny, Martin thought, how obedient he could be when he put his mind to it. “God, Martin,” Tim whispered, letting words out quickly between breaths that were quickly becoming ragged, uncontrolled, extracted from deep in Tim’s chest each time Martin pushed into him. “Please, faster, please. God, you’re good. Please.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin reached to stroke Tim’s cock, which bounced lightly in time with his thrusts, and Tim whispered, “fuck,” and he let go of his restraint then, fucking harder and harder into Tim, letting his desperation for the comfort and safety he found in Tim’s body, his breath, overtake him. Stroking in rhythm with his fucking, he revelled in Tim’s cries of pleasure, and he was close, then, but he didn’t want this to stop, he wanted to stay inside Tim, undoing him, making him moan like this, being the reason for that pretty look on his pretty, pretty face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Martin, I....” Tim couldn’t finish the sentence, but he didn’t need to. Martin pushed deeper, deeper, barely retreating between thrusts now, and all at once Tim cried out and spilled into Martin’s hand, leaving what Martin was sure were scratch marks down his back, slick with sweat. Pleasure swelled through Martin, and he felt himself tumbling over some precipitous edge as he fucked Tim desperately, relentlessly, and found himself muttering, “Tim, Tim, fuck, Tim” as he came, his vision blurring and his mind going blank for a moment before he went still, and quiet, and began to pull himself away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tim was breathing hard, laid there on the bed, still hot and flushed and utterly a mess as Martin stripped off the condom and wiped himself clean with tissue he tossed in the trash. For a moment, he wasn’t sure what to say, but when he turned around to glance at Tim again, his friend beckoned him, one arm open and waiting, and Martin took a place that felt as though it had been saved for him, nestled against Tim’s chest, one hand resting on his stomach, another in his hair. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Their breathing slowed. He wasn’t sure how long it was before either of them spoke, but the silence was comfortable, companionable, as the ambient noise of the London night buzzed in their ears: traffic, far-off sirens, planes soaring far overhead, taking people they would never know to places they would never visit. Martin though maybe he should be standing up, apologizing, saying he would see Tim at work, assuming they still had jobs, but as though he read Martin’s mind, Tim pulled him closer, planted a gentle kiss on his forehead. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you,” Tim whispered. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It felt absurd to Martin. Thank </span>
  <em>
    <span>him?  </span>
  </em>
  <span>“No,” he objected, “don’t. Tim. You’re… well, come on. It’s us, isn’t it?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He felt, more than heard, Tim’s laugh emerge from the body pressed against his own. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right. You’re right. It’s us.” The room felt safer than Martin had felt in a long, long time. Since before Prentiss, since before living in the archives, since before they lost… Sasha and Jon, too probably… he tried not to think about it, and when Tim asked, quietly, in a voice so small he might have missed it, “stay with me?” Martin pushed all thoughts of the Institute from his mind and let himself begin to drift, slowly, to sleep. </span>
</p>
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